The Hunger Games: Forgotten Ember
by Flayrith
Summary: Of all characters in the Hunger Games series, only Caesar Flickerman remains with no resolution to his story. The man recognized by every person in Panem was somehow lost in the last days of the Rebellion. While rumors, speculation, and hearsay abound, we may never know the true accounting of his life. That story can only be told by a greater reporter than I.


The Hunger Games: Forgotten Ember

By the finale of the Hunger Games series, nearly all characters had found a resolution – either through triumph or defeat; discovery or loss; or simply by putting the past behind and moving on. All but one: Caesar Flickerman. The man recognized by everyone, with access to everything, yet easily forgotten behind the lights and suits and smile. We never knew what became of the Face of the Games; now we do.

This story is a non-commercial work of fan fiction and claims no official connection with any other copyrighted work, characters, settings or events. All elements are the property of their respective owners. No copyright infringement is intended.

1

It's been over three hours and the Peacekeepers haven't come to arrest me, yet.

Caesars' apartment – opulent in luxury, even by Capitol standards but fitting for the man known as 'The Face of the Games' over the past four decades – was now dull in shadows, shades drawn and illumination panels dimmed. While not unusual for the windows to be screened from outside view; I, Caesar Flickerman, thanks to my celebrity status, allow into my home only those eyes I invite; it wasn't uncommon at any time of day or night for fans and followers to seek out anyone associated with the Games for autographs, holo-photos or, as I learned to appreciate, women and men looking to ask, and offer, more. But tonight I did not anticipate; but rather feared, a knock – or more likely, a squad of Peacekeepers smashing in – my front door, batons at the ready and guns aimed at my head. Without forethought, I find myself now alone, afraid, and uncertain. If it weren't for the last of my vintage Merlot, that is tonight more than ever a good an opportunity to finish, I would be cowering behind the sofa, anticipating the worst. Yet tonight is only the logical conclusion to events, both within and beyond my control, of the past two years. When Katniss Everdeen – the "Girl on Fire" - along with her fellow Tribute...boyfriend? lover? co-conspirator? fellow rebel? Peeta Malark hijacked the 74th Hunger Games, willing to take their own lives rather than one another, all broadcast live in front of President Snow and the entire population of Panem, I sensed a change not only in the Games; nor by the humiliation brought upon the government; but in the feeling and tenor of all who watched. Some who felt cheated out of the climax of an ultimate kill and final victor; others who began to question - quietly, among themselves and always with doors locked and rooms secured from Capitol surveillance – that the 'Games' we have championed and cheered for longer than most of us can remember, these annual games...is all a fraud. These events, around which I have reveled in the pageant and the veneration, have been little more than the glorification of death. Not for only a few weeks every year, as all of Panem is wrapped in the selection, the training, the costuming, the gossip and ultimately the spectacle of each tribute as she and he, children all, prepare for their death. And while each passing day of anticipation grows into fever pitch as every tribute demonstrates his and her strengths and weaknesses, gaining supporters and detractors, sponsors and critics, it is my 'honor' to expose every child before a waiting public, to draw out of them their most private thoughts and hidden feelings. To parade each Tribute – a fitting name, for each march forth not as an honorable representative of her District but rather in dutiful tribute to a government that has decided the most effective way to demonstrate its power is by by forcing children to participate in their own slaughter. For those of us, a part of this deranged system, our own hands drip with blood. It's not only a few weeks, or a handful of hours, or the chilling final moments of the Games that draw our attention; it's the basis of our lives, the totality of every action taken in every year for my entire career. My life, amounting to no more than staged killing fields artificially created for the public's distraction and amusement. I deserve whatever is coming to me.

And what is coming, if I can believe the reports on the video screens, is almost here. More so than most, I know the manipulation Capitol TV regularly broadcasts to the public: 'Live' video that had been created days prior and only to press forward a specific point of view; 'bystander' interviews arranged – and paid for – long before the vid-imaging is flicked on; downloaded voices virtu-synched; and videos edited, artificially enhanced or altered, and then re-edited until what the public actually sees has little to do with reality. But tonight, while the streets are in chaos, friend and foe are indistinguishable, and Panem is descending into the unthinkable, there's no time or reason for the network to show anything that isn't real. Not that 'reason' ever had much to do with broadcasting. Which, if what we're now seeing actually _is_ real, that novel approach could ironically be unique enough to be 'news' on its own.

Not that I will be there to report it. I follow broadcasts of the hover-cams, positioned by the government so not a single street is beyond view, not a doorway is obscured. Each panel of my video screen shows squads of Peacekeepers pushing relentlessly in my direction. What is the number of Peacekeepers per squad? Thirty? Fifty? I was never a student of law. In my position, there was no need to adhere to any law other than promoting the Games. Sometimes I made my own law. But, again, that's my celebrity asserting itself, deceiving me into believing that, by rights of my own self-importance, I would answer to no one but President Snow himself. And little he would know, if while narrating the games; announcing the latest deaths; or interviewing mentors and sponsors I was passing forward information to help a favorite Tribute. Or secretly sending gifts to prolong the life of a games player I wanted to last a bit longer. Or, as it turned out, broadcasting messages in favor of the rebels and their seemingly hopeless cause. While initially I had no intention of siding with the rebels, my only cause an indulgence to the curiosity of what influence I could wield in the outcome and entertainment value of the Game. The reasoning and ultimate goal of the rebels lay largely beyond my understanding. What change could a group of resentful farmers, miners, shopkeepers, and children – _led_ , in fact, by children – plan to accomplish. In the history of Panem no rebellion well-planed nor impulsive; armed with words or weapons; has succeeded in anything other than bringing a bit more drama and variety to the next scheduled Games. But almost seamlessly I was drawn into the possibility that the Games and the privileged world I lived in was at its core warped and distorted; that, if anyone ever had a chance at bringing redemption, it was Katniss Everdeen.

Which makes me a prime target for the Peacekeepers now almost at the doorstep of my building. Simply an eighteen floor elevator ride to my penthouse. Although the only elevators dedicated to the top floors are plush, small and, made of glass on three sides, intended to see and be seen, not for transporting armed officers. Even the 'public' elevators would only bring up a dozen or so Peacekeepers at a time. Possibly squads are even now scaling the stairs, an heroic and exhausting feat for most anyone living in District 1 but only a small challenge for men and women who have dedicated much of their lives to maintaining law and order through physical strength and intimidation. No, what is most likely is that a pair of hovercraft will appear outside my windows, Peacekeepers descending on ropes and taking advantage of my floor-to-ceiling glass to drop directly into my living room. Maybe they will enter with guns firing. That would be a fittingly dramatic end to Caesar Flickerman. Too bad I wouldn't survive to report it.

It's always possible the Peacekeepers have been dispatched to protect me from the rebels. Perhaps President Snow, recognizing my smiling face as a more welcome and acceptable figure, has sent for me to broadcast to all Panem the enduring soundness and stability of the government, guided as always by the fair and firm hand of your President. Who better than I to affirm the benevolent strength and unselfishness of our _pater familias._ Who's not available to speak for himself now because he's unselfishly overseeing the murder of thousands and the destruction of all they know.

Or the Peacekeepers are not focused on me (oh the vain of celebrity!), but are targeting others on this block. Among my neighbors I can count social climbers; status-seekers; name-droppers; smugglers of illegal substances; thieves too polished to be called crooks yet too vital to the governments' interests to be considered illicit. Unfortunately, for me, none of those professions have the access or ability to expose state secrets with a few carefully selected words. Or assist in an open rebellion not through overt action but simply by failing to denounce its players.

In any case, now there is no more time for speculation. An explosion has just shattered my door. They are here.

2

"Caesar! Caesar Flickerman! I need those Tribute sketches in twenty minutes – every one we think is still alive. Where they came from, how many they killed, who their families are, what they've been doing since the finale of the 74th. Focus on Peter, his reaction to the death of Katniss, then move on to whoever else you think the audience wants to see. We air in forty!"

Lletha Bleathsitch is technically my boss. Executive Director, Games Programming, at Capitol TV. The latest in a series of rotating-door managers who have one day shown up at the studio with an appointment from the Capitol and a mandate to keep the Games broadcasts 'fresh' and 'stimulating'. Other than a handful that could actually tell the difference between a holo-cam and a voicedoc, most have been media-clueless political manipulators who held tightly to whatever low-level insider secret they managed to overhear - such as what type illegal mustache wax President Snow uses or something of that sort - until they could leverage that knowledge into an undemanding government job. I've lost count how many bodies have sat in that ED's chair, at the outset enthusiastically secure behind the polished oak desk and insulated by stone and glass walls from whatever background they are trying to conceal. Eventually to find that illusion of protection settle into, at best, a cubbyhole where they would hide and try to be forgotten; or at worst, a temporary holding cell preparing them for their next post. Which I never knew, as once someone left that office for the last time, were never seen again.

"Petta, Lletha. I think you mean 'Peeta'."

"Peter, Peeta, however you want to pronounce it. The blond kid that's supposed to be an item with the Jabberjay girl, Everdeen. And put together something about Finnick Odair from 4. Everyone loves Finnick."

"'Mockingjay'", I mention as I turn toward my office. "She's known throughout Panam as the Mockingjay. To all but you, apparently."

But she's already parading down the hallway, giving orders to graphics to pull up some Tribute glamour shots and demanding Otha Hobard, our video librarian, put together a 'best-of' reel that will play in the background during my broadcast. No one moves any faster or more purposely than they would if they had already started those projects themselves. Which they had, long before Lletha had realized what actions Games Programming was responsible for or what jobs needed to be assigned. Some people act. Some react. Others just get in the way.

This will be my third broadcast of the day. Unusual for any Games programming to occur outside the weeks leading into, and following the annual Games, it's absolutely unprecedented for me to be on the air, unscheduled, multiple times in one day. But these are uncommon times. I'm still in makeup from our mornings first broadcast, and before the vidcams go live I'll need a touch up and certainly a change of wardrobe. It's unfortunate I won't have time to colorshift my hair. But weeks from now, when all has settled and things are back to normal, today's small inconveniences will simply be folded into overall continuity when these spontaneous performances are edited into: 'A Caesar Flickerman Special Event: Rise and Fall of the Unfortunates'. Although it's part of Llethas job to develop original programming, I thought of this one myself. When time comes, it will be only a small challenge to get her to believe it's her idea. Traditionally Games Programming has been responsible for presenting the Games in its glamor, spectacle, and tradition. To interview the Tributes equally and without favor, showing them not only as representatives of their Districts but as individuals with hopes, dreams, belief and doubt just as any viewer. Building rapport between the Tributes and the public.

Encouraging sponsors; spotlighting personalities; personalizing the unfamiliar; anything that will tug at the heart of the viewer and keep their attention on the Games and the messages government directs toward them. Any real news is directed toward Updates and Information Programming, where 'real' reporters announce government initiatives, food pricing, travel restrictions, and the occasional robbery or murder that can't be covered up because there were too many witnesses. But that's also the type of reporting that can involve an InfoAnchor too intimately, placing them in positions where they know more than is healthy, and providing information the government would rather keep concealed. It's rare for any Update and Information anchor to last longer than three years; but the call of video is powerful, and more are always waiting to fill any recent opening. Years ago, I promised myself I wouldn't be caught up in those minefields of controversy but would build myself into the Voice and Face of the Games, the one all Panam associates with our annual Event. During celebration or failure, exultation or loss, I would become as irreplaceable as the Games themselves. I wouldn't be the one to uncover a potentially damaging story only to later disappear. While the stream of waiting InfoAnchors is endless, there is only one Caesar Flickerman. If only I had obeyed my own rule.

Following the disastrous ending of the Third Quarter Quell, in which there was no winner; the arena was destroyed; and many of the remaining Tributes apparently disappeared – spirited away, it's assumed, by Rebellion hoverships – the government was only able to locate and 'recover' Peeta Malark, Johanna Mason and Enobaria Gnaeustis. While these three were considered a bit of saving grace to the capitol, loss of the Mockingjay was a particular blow to President Snow, who, many believed, arranged these 75th games specifically for the purpose of assuring her execution, publicly, and without the direct stain of blood soiling his signature white suit. And, of course, to reinforce the recognition that he can do anything, to anyone, at any time he pleases. While the loss of Miss Everdeen was a great embarrassment to President Snow – a man who does not like to be embarrassed – there was the unexpected security of capturing Peeta, who is even now forced to pay the price for that embarrassment. Johanna and Enobaria are, I must assume, of little importance to the government as in both their original competitions and the Quarter Quell neither showed little interest in anything other than their own survival, let alone participating in a rebellion. Peeta is now left alone to bear the burden and endure the suffering of the chaos caused by District 12 and all its inhabitants. Of the sudden reversal and loss of power a handful of Tributes were able to wrest from the Games, the Gameskeepers, and the President himself. Of the rise of the Rebellion. For his association with Katniss, and the carefully-crafted love story that drew in the public like flies to honey. For his misfortune of surviving. All unfair burdens for a boy who, possibly, was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.

3

Peeta sits across from me. But this is not the boy I interviewed a year ago. Never blunt or outspoken, I remember Peeta Malark for his thoughtful answers to my questions and his self-effacing humor. Before me now is little more than a pair of haunted eyes trapped in a tortured body. And while the government seems to be taking every precaution to show Peeta as a healthy, lucid, self-controlled individual, they can't mask his screams of pain from thermal batons as backstage, Peackeepers fashion him into a puppet spokesperson. All my years of experience interviewing Tributes who were frightened; obstinate; confused; angry; lost; hostile or simply in denial haven't prepared me to talk with one who has nothing more to give. Although begun as an impulsive mix of ego, compassion and an effort to ease my feelings of guilt, today I have no regrets of what I entered into months ago.

Glitter and Cato were, I think, who pushed me to that point. District 1 and 2 Tributes for the 74th Games, both were self-absorbed, pretentious and exhibited a carefully-crafted false modesty that, at close distance, served more to repulse others than gain favor. Of course, to some degree that is true of all Careers – Tributes from Districts 1 and 2 who devote their often short lives to Games preparation, dividing their time between combat training; personality enhancement; and what is termed 'Social and Psychological Influence'. Or, how to manipulate others. Among themselves the honor of participating in the Games is often decided through personal combat, winners allowed the privilege of volunteering during the Reaping. Perhaps it wasn't the 74th Careers and their superior personae who first caused me to question the voracity of the Games and its unending appetite for more and more youth. Maybe it was the blood-lust of Enobaria (District 2, Victor 62nd), who ripped out another Tributes throat with her teeth – and _following_ her victory, had those teeth sharpened into fangs. Possibly Liege Tiberious (District 1, Victor 53rd) best known for the golden headband, resembling a crown, he wore throughout the Games; and for his name, officially registered by his parents 'to proclaim his superiority over others'. Perhaps the arrogance of Brutus (District 2, Victor 48th), the only Tribute to use only one name – more than sufficient to define his identity. Who during his pre-Games interview demonstrated his physical strength by lifting me above his head, to the delight of the audience, and nearly breaking my ribs. Or, my growing disgust at those who pursue the Games in the hunger of victory and fame is not from any individual nor specific event, but has developed through the contrast between the Careers and those such as Peeta; and Katniss; and Rue; and Thoren; and Avae; and Virgle; and Hosea; and all those, through the years, sitting across from me in pageant and spectacle as they acknowledge their imminent death. So, when Haymitch Abernathy approached me in the final hours of the 74th Games detailing the growing support for Katniss Everdeen not only in District 12, but due to her compassion also in District 11; and that all Panam was mesmerized by the love story between Katniss and Peeta; and, the effect this unknown girl from a forgotten District could affect for all; I set aside over thirty years of professional impartiality. I, Caesar Flickerman, Voice and Face of the Games, known to every citizen of Panam and likely tracked and monitored by multiple Government Bureaus, became a Rebel.

The food basket I sponsored for Katniss and Peeta made for good broadcasting, and led to a thrilling and unprecedented finale to the 74th Games. But today, it seems to have made little difference. Following the 74th Games I continued working at Games Broadcasting, fulfilling my weekly schedule of appointments and video-sessions, public appearances and government events. Haymitch and I were the only two, to the best of my knowledge, who knew I had arranged for that specific food basket, at that specific time, be sent to Katniss and Peeta. I remembered, and insisted, on the lamb stew. While the 'rebellion' must involve a complex web of individuals, groups, and associations, possibly reaching into the highest levels of government, I was content, and felt much safer, keeping my knowledge to myself and occasionally meeting with Haymitch as my only contact. As the only other Victor of District 12, mentor to Katniss and Peeta, any meetings I had with Haymitch were expected and unquestioned as simply a part of the job, a gathering of gossip and backstories the public craved during the months between the Games.

Haymitch Abernathy, the youngest Tribute ever to win the Games – and against all probability, from the least likely District – always unpredictable, often impulsive, usually lost within himself. But I trust Haymitch, if only because I remember the small, quiet boy of the Second Quarter Quell. A boy, something like Peeta Malark, whose intensity of quietness must be a characteristic of those from District 12. The males, at least. But Haymitch was not quiet in the introspective, thoughtful way of Peeta, but more as someone withdrawn, hidden, as one who has accepted his fate. Ironically that fate was not to die in the 50th Games but to outlast all but one final Tribute and in creating an effective - but reckless – way to end the Games using the Gamemakers own technology. An act that made him the Victor, and as President Snow cannot tolerate being made the fool, resulted in the immediate execution of his family. Leaving Haymitch a self-abusive, bitter, hollow presence forced, over 23 years as the only surviving Tribute of District 12, to mentor and send to their deaths every child reaped from his home. Re-living pain no amount of liquor can extinguish and each year multiplied in the faces of one boy and one girl. In the Games, even among the victors, not all who die perish on screen.

Outside of the Games, there was little I could do to help the rebels other than watch for and note any unusual or unexpected directives sent by the government. As far as everyone in Games Programming was concerned, once the current Games had finished, the Victory Tours completed, and the Victor safely back in his or her district, prep began for the next Games. Lletha was my only concern as my weekly schedules had to be approved by her and I was required to provide detailed summaries outlining anything of interest that developed from those schedules. But ever since she had arrived I had never taken the time, or interest, to tell Lletha everything and I saw no reason to change that now. She seldom showed more than the minimum amount of attention, or capacity, to look beyond the obvious and as long as the vids were completed and indexed; meetings were attended; and reports filed, I was confident in my role of 'undercover rebel' for as long as the game lasted. Which would be until the rebellion was victorious, or extinguished. Though my hope lay with the Girl on Fire, I could convince myself I would survive either outcome. That hope was lost when Katniss was killed.

4

In the weeks following the 74th Games, unrest grew among the Districts. The Victory Tours, designed as a time of triumphal salvation for the Victor and sorrowful humiliation for those citizens whose Tributes did not return, for the first time in anyone's memory did not result in a population once again crushed under the whims of government; but in a growing sense of dissent and defiance. While any outward actions were immediately extinguished, ordinary citizens dragged away and executed at the smallest sign of opposition, soon Victors of previous Games, motivated by the image of the Mockingjay, became examples to their respective Districts. By their action or inaction, the only citizens of Panam personally immune from personal threat from the Capitol (or so it was believed) became representatives of a rebellion; the outlying Districts moving toward opposition as those nearest the Capitol continued their unquestioning support for the Government. When it became time to announce the special conditions under which the 75th Games – the Third Quarter Quell - would be played, President Snow believed he would crush any rebellion by devising these Games as a contest between previous Victors, to be reaped among the survivors of each District. While Districts 1 and 2 could claim many representatives, most Districts had only one or two living Victors. Conveniently, District 12 – the center of the Rebellion only because it is the home of Peeta and Katniss – meant that, no matter who was reaped from that community, President Snow could be assured he would dispose of at least one nuisance. Yet in that plan so deviously conceived, formed the Rebellion in earnest. Within the Games, we saw players sacrificing themselves for the sake of alliances; cooperation; misdirection, and in what could only be accomplished through weeks of advance planning, destruction of the Arena and the disappearance - rescue - by Rebellion forces of most of the surviving Tributes. Leading to the fall of Districts distant and near; many quickly secured from government control as much of the population was in sympathy with the Rebels. By surrender, submission or abdication, sometimes without a shot fired, soon leaving only the Capitol and District 2 unbroken.

Following the fall of District 2, President Snow took shelter in his Palace – a precaution, we were told, to protect the stability of Government. Citizens not on official business were 'encouraged' to remain in their homes and businesses during the daytime; and required to clear the streets at sundown. While Martial law has not been officially invoked hundreds of additional Peacekeepers have been trucked into the city and not an intersection, junction, corner, or public entrance is now left unguarded. The most significant action has been the announcement of opening of the Presidential Palace grounds to all Capitol children, presumably for protection or at least as an assurance to Capitol citizens that despite what the future may hold, our children will be safe. I have lived through too many of Snows actions to justify the thought he has any care or concern for these children. He probably has other motives like using the children as bargaining tools; hostages if it comes to that. Wards, prisoners, or leverage, in every way Snow knows how to play the game. But now that they have lost their Figurehead, there's talk the Rebellion can't continue. Or maybe they'll just make her a martyr - all the strength of a symbol with none of the inconvenience of a real person with passion, hope and hunger.

What was broadcast as death of the Mockingjay, having been shot by brave defenders of the Republic (although I suspect Capitol TV isn't the only studio with a library of video special effects they can employ toward any result they want), resulted in bedlam throughout the Capitol. An unstable mix of tumult and uproar; confusion and celebration; fear and bewilderment. Although I can't really phrase it as 'All Hell breaking loose'; I would use the rather less-cataclysmic description of everyone out for him, or her, self. For while there was no outward panic in the streets; widespread violence; or mass-evacuations, there was a step-up in food hoarding from a hobby to an obsession; neighbors became distrusted and friends suspected; and window blinds remained closed while doorchimes went unanswered. An unsettling I hadn't seen since the Dark Days. Not that I, of course, am old enough to actually remember that time.

If I keep drinking I won't be able to remember much of anything. This wine must be more effective at masking my misery than I expected, because I haven't even finished one bottle and I'm already starting to feel a bit blurry. But not quite unbalanced enough to consider crawling from behind this couch and into the kitchen for a snack. Something sweet and something salty sounds tempting. And another bottle of wine. If my broadcasting career really is over – there's no way to know how much damage Lletha has caused – I won't have an audience to notice a few extra pounds squeezed into my interview suits. For that matter, there's no reason I'll be wearing interview suits. Besides, it's the camera that adds pounds, not the occasional indulgence. And my apartment holds more indulgences than I'll ever have time to enjoy. But for now, my greatest desire is to sit here, on the floor secured between my couch and my courage, with my mind adrift and my body at rest. Until I pass out or am carried away.

5

It's surprising there hasn't been an official announcement of the Mockingjays death. It appears the Rebels had planned a live broadcast of District 2 surrendering to forces led by their figurehead but Capitol TV had intercepted that broadcast and fed it with only a few seconds delay to all Capital televisions. So we all saw how Katniss, the Girl on Fire I knew as a pawn long before she became a sacrifice, was ambushed by a District 2 defender.

Obviously being fed lines as the scene was too clearly scripted (possibly being directed by Gamesmaster Plutarch, who has disappeared but suspected of complicity with the Rebellion), Katniss tried to reason with the man holding a gun to her head that she wasn't the enemy. Nor was District 13. Or even the Rebellion. But the real enemy is President Snow. And that all people of all Districts should band together not against one another, but against the Capitol. A moment of drama. The man with the gun wavering. The effect of Truth over Lie. Triumph waiting to be seized. Then she was shot, and fell, and the Rebel broadcast went dead. Katniss Everdeen, the Girl on Fire. The Mockingjay. The martyr. One of the few Tributes I allowed, however misguided that may have been, to move beyond my professional facade into my carefully reserved feelings. In over thirty decades, the only one I ever allowed myself to believe in. Through a professional lifetime, the only one I ever cherished.

When Lletha called me into her office, I assumed it was to clarify a script interview question, resolve a scheduling conflict, or ask me to 'take-over' one of her projects. Cover up what she couldn't do herself. I hadn't expected to hear she knew about my sponsoring the basket to Katniss and Peeta.

"So, Caesar, it seems you've taken personal interest in the Games. Or, in a couple of the Tributes, at least."

"I always 'take interest' in the Games, Lletha. It's my job. The audience gets to know the Tributes through me. If I joke or flirt or find a way to make them more human, the audience can pretend they're right up there on stage with me, meeting the Tributes themselves."

She leaned back in her chair, her thin lips forming a cocky little grin, a little too pleased with herself. I liked her better when she was annoyed.

"Oh, Caesar, Caesar, I think you've gone further than trying to play pretend games with our viewers. I think you've been playing real games. Like engaging in back-stage ploys that make you think you're getting something past me. Favoring some Tributes over others. Sponsoring food deliveries during a live Game. Not things the Government would approve of, Caesar. Particularly not from their celebrity Master of Ceremonies."

"Lletha, I don't know where you're getting...".

"Personally, I don't care what you're trying to prove or how many Tributes you favor over others. Send them all baskets filled with pastries and chocolate covered fruit for all I care, it all makes for good vid, viewers too hooked to turn away, and less interference from the higher-ups. But what you do reflects on me, and I'm not going to allow your, um, _enthusiasm_ to make Capitol TV question my abilities to handle my staff or direct Games Broadcasting. I know you've resented me from the first day I stepped behind this desk, but the facts are I am the Director and you are nothing more than a talking head. With one call I can have you dragged out of here in disgrace and I will be the hero. Now how do you want to play it?"

I could have made up some story about unfettered rumors from a jealous InfoAnchor trying to discredit me; or someone forging my digiscan to approve the delivery; or even a manipulative plot where I was forced into actions I would never undertake on my own. At least it sounds like she doesn't know about Haymitchs' connection to the rebellion and the coded messages I've worked into my broadcasts and that the little food basket plot she uncovered is just a bit of insider scandal. President Snows mustache wax all over again. So, I decided to do something novel at Capitol TV. And tell the truth. Or, as much of the truth that sounded convincing.

"Lletha, what can I say. You are right. After thirty-six Games, I couldn't take being on the sidelines any more. When Ms. Everdeen and Mr. Malark were in that cave, hiding, alone, injured and hungry, and _in love_ , it was just too much for me. I had to do something, even though I knew all along it was wrong. But the viewers ate it up! Young love, on the brink of defeat, given a second chance. If I'm not mistaken, we picked up seven shares on that one night."

"All that's a good story, Caesar, but I don't buy it. You wouldn't set aside forty years of celebrity just so two kids don't die. There's something else going on. Maybe you've got a thing for that girl, or the boy, or maybe even that other Victor from 12, Hemish. I don't know and I don't want to know."

I had to swallow hard to keep from lashing out at her. And to keep my lunch from coming up.

"But whatever it is, I can't have it hanging over me like a knife ready to fall. It's time for Caesar Flickerman, 'Face of the Games', to retire. Just like the Third Quarter Quell, you can go out on a wave of confusion and embarrassment. You're fired."

Caesar Flickerman, removed from Games Broadcasting. Now that's a story. And I won't be there to report it.

6

"Flickerman! Caesar Flickerman! It's Katniss!"

"...and other assorted collaborators." chimed in a familiarly sarcastic voice.

Johanna Mason. District 7. Victor of the 71st. Axes. A little unnerving. A little unbalanced. And now a rebel?

Beyond the cherywood splinters that were until a few seconds ago my front door; and through an oddly glittering, yet chalk-like smoky cloud of plaster and gold paint that is the remains of my entry; are not the spotless white uniforms and well-ordered ranks of Peacekeepers I expected, but just the opposite: A small group of random individuals dressed in un-matched browns and greys and exhibiting just enough order to keep out of each others way. At the front is a smallish girl completely clothed in black; by her manner not necessarily _leading_ , although most of the others are looking to her for direction.

"Caesar!? We've come to get you! It's Katniss Everdeen – it's a rescue!"

Behind the relative safety of my couch, I can see and hear everything, but am strangely frozen in place. I don't know if it's fear, or shock, or surprise, but all I'm able to focus on is the red stain on the carpet beside me and the empty wine glass by my leg. I should have known better than to try to drink a Merlot while sitting on a white shag carpet.

Pushing past Katniss, Johanna is looking in my direction; not at, but beyond me. "Rescue? I'm just here for the fun. And cake. Didn't somebody mention cake, afterwards?"

"Johanna, if you're so set on stuffing yourself why don't you check out the pantry. Take whatever you can. Even if it's not cake."

Pivoting on her heel, Johanna sprints toward the kitchen, at the opposite end of the apartment. Passing from sight, she calls over her shoulder "Well a girl's got to do what she can. I don't suppose old blue-hair has any Morphling."

Actually, I do. But she's not going to find it in the kitchen.

Three other rebels enter, rifles at the ready, and make their way through my apartment – one moves past me, into my bedroom; another takes position at the windows overlooking the street. The third positions himself between the living room and what remains of the entry. Katniss is just a few feet from me, and I'm about to call out when a strong pair of hands grabs me by the shoulders and lift-pulls me from behind the couch. With nothing of interest to keep him in the bedroom, that soldier has already returned to the living room and has now unceremoniously dropped me in front of the Mockingjay.

"Caesar! Are you OK?"

What can I say? I've just lost my job, Panam is in shambles, there's probably been an edict issued for my arrest, my front door is a pile of splinters. And there's quite a nasty red stain on my carpet.

"I'm fine, Katniss. You're looking particularly stunning, this afternoon." Professional habits are hard to break.

"Yeah, thanks. We've got to get out of here. Johanna and I are taking you back to District 13. Gales' in a hovership with a couple other soldiers and we've got to move before the Peacekeepers come. Are you ready?"

"Uh, certainly. I just need to pack a few things...".

"Commander Everdeen!" calls out the soldier who hasn't wavered from his post at the window. "Without a Holo unit we can't be certain that Pod across the way hasn't been activated. I suggest we move out now!"

" _Commander_? Well who gave _you_ a promotion?" Johanna, who's apparently cleaned out my kitchen as she's now loaded down with three satchels of food – I can see a tin of caviar sticking out from one of the flaps – has returned.

"Johanna, just don't say anything. We're lucky we got these volunteers to come along at all on this, uh, special mission and we don't want to do anything to make them question why they're here, or why this effort is vital to the cause. Just follow through with the plans and soon we all – ALL of us – will be back at 13 and they can get on with this rebellion."

"Look, miss High-and-Mighty, I never wanted any part of this so-called 'Rebellion'. I just want it _over_. Just because someone let you think you're in charge doesn't mean you're in control. We'll do what you say because everyone in Panem has such glorious expectations for their lovely 'Fire Girl' and most people don't know enough to ask why. But that doesn't mean you're in command of any of us."

"I never asked to be 'in control' of anyone. I can hardly be in control of myself."

"Well these kids seem to think you're in command, so lets hear some orders, Your Commandedness."

In words, the same Johanna of the past four years. In actions, she seems to defer, so slightly, to Katniss. Who herself doesn't look like she's anyone but a girl who's seen too much and been asked to do more. I can't tell if these two hate each other, or if this is how they show the respect of two lives unwillingly drawn together.

"OK Hanson and Porter, help Caesar to the hover. Johanna, _if you would_ , follow and watch their backs. When you've cleared the roof signal Hybeck at the window and we'll come up. Caesar, there's no time to pack anything. What you've got on you is what you'll have to take. You've got to climb the stairs to the roof, move down the building to the opposite side, and Gale will lower a harness that will haul you onto the hovership. Can you do that?"

On either side of me a soldier has his hands clamped to my arm and are all but lifting my feet off the ground. I'm almost out the doorway as it is. I don't see how I _can't_ do that.

"Of course Katniss, who am I to argue with the Mockingjay?" But she doesn't hear me. Behind me, my living room has disappeared beneath a pile of rubble. I can see the setting sun, brighter than expected, cast a warm glow over what remains of my home. A hole in my ceiling has been cut through in a barrage of bullets. Of all possible scenarios, I hadn't considered this.

7

"KATNISS!" I can sense myself screaming, but strangely I don't hear my own voice. What I do take in is the shatter of glass as parts of what was my ceiling and roof smash into my living room windows; the scattering of bits and pieces of that same ceiling and roof continuing to add to the pile of debris in the center of the room; random yelling that I can't tell is from anger, fear, or pain; and Johanna snapping orders to the two soldiers dragging me by the arms to "Get him out of here." And boots. Lots of heavy-soled boots hitting the floor.

"Beta Unit, fan out and secure any doors, windows or passages. Omega, search the area for the target. Corporal Wylia, get on the com and let that hover outside know we've secured the scene and not to fire on us. Then contact Sergeant Reynid below and ...GHH...". With one swift slice to the neck from Johanna's ax, vibrant red flooded his pristine white uniform and that was the last command the Unit Leader ever gave. The rebel soldier who had been at the window – Hybeck? - had been thrown to the floor by the blast of the falling roof, but quickly got off two rounds that each took down a Peacekeeper before he had to scramble on his hands and knees for cover. Despite Johanna's directions, I'm dropped - once again – as the soldiers disregard me to focus on more immediate concerns. "Commander!" shouts the one on my right - either Porter or Hanson, I never knew which was which – rushes toward the pile of debris that has now all but filled the center of the room, in the process smashing one Peacekeeper in the head with his rifle and shooting another point blank in the chest. To my left, Hanson or Porter is diving behind the partition separating my living room from the kitchen, two Peacekeepers firing but hitting nothing but my walls and furniture. Unluckily, this places them between the Rebel secured behind the barrier and the squad investigating my bedroom, who race back to the living room, firing at the partition but hitting one Peacekeeper in the process and causing the second to turn from facing the wall and toward the arriving Peacekeepers, giving Porter – I believe – the opportunity to spring from his shelter and virtually cut the remaining attacker in half with a round of machine gun fire. In the meantime Hybeck had been laying, un-noticed, in a position that is now behind the bedroom squad, allowing him a clear shot at two. He probably would have taken all three, if Johanna hadn't already embedded her ax, thrown from across the room, in that Peackeepers head. Considering everything, I don't think there's any way to salvage this carpet.

"Commander Everdeen – are you OK? Are you hurt"

"Katniss, stop laying around on your ass. We've got to get moving." Although the words were harsh, I noticed Johanna was pushing aside broken beams faster, and digging through crushed plaster with more intensity, than Hanson, Porter or Haybeck.

"It's OK, I'm here." came the muffled but determined voice. "Over near the couch – it blocked most of the blast."

"Well that was a nice little surprise." noted Johanna as she tossed aside a two foot square of ceiling tile roughly in the direction of Hanson – or is it Hybeck – who had to duck out of the way. "I guess you're not the only one who's interested in Mr. Glitter over there."

As Katniss – who, until moments earlier I believed had been killed in a tunnel beneath District 2 - emerged from the pile of dust and wreckage I thought of a Phoenix rising from the ashes. Although, with clothing torn and bits of rubble in her hair, she looked less like the symbolic Mockingjay and more like a young Flickergee that had fallen from its nest.

"Yeah, and if those ten were sent up here, there's got to be at least that many more waiting in the street. Haybeck, Hanson, Porter, everyone OK? Caesar, where's Caesar? Johanna, if you screwed this up...".

"Katniss I'm in the doorway – just trying to stay...".

"Oh, he's fine. I guess I could have just taken him to the hover and flown away and told Gale you were dead. Wouldn't be the first time. But I thought I'd stick around to see what happened."

"I get the point, Johanna, thanks. I guess I owe you."

"Whatever. We're already going to catch it from Haymitch and Plutarch about this whole mission, I don't want to have to explain how I let their Mockingjay die, too. And they probably wouldn't let me have any cake."

And for a brief instant Katniss smiled. Through hours of interviews and days of vid-recording and weeks of the Victory tour I don't think I ever saw her truly, honestly, freely, smile. She should do it more often. "Everyone, grab what's useful and let's move out."

I can feel my body body loosing contact with the ground. Up the stairs, hurrying down one end of the roof to the other, I'm lifted between Hanson and Porter toward what looks like a Government hovership hanging above my building. At least, with the prominent Government seal and identification markings, it would be a Government ship if not for the gray-clothed soldiers standing guard on either side of a tall, good-looking young man whom I assume to be Gale.

"I was about to go in there after you. What happened?"

"I'll explain later, nothing we couldn't handle. Or, nothing Johanna and the team couldn't handle. Take Caesar and let's get out of here. It won't be long before the rest of that Peacekeeper Unit figures out we're not on their side."

Gale Hawthorne – from Katnisses' background files I know he's a family member; a cousin, I believe; a miner from District 12 who's never been selected nor volunteered, and has now aged out of the Games. But he must have gained combat experience somewhere, as he's far more clearheaded in this situation than I am through my ever-growing disorientation and confusion. Directing rebel soldiers as they strap me into a canvas chair which is lifted through the door of the waiting hovership, I'm unceremoniously dumped, once again, onto one of the benches set along the sides of the craft. For someone important enough for a rescue, there hasn't been a lot of consideration involved. Maybe whoever's in charge of this rebellion made Katniss believe this is a rescue to get her to cooperate. My importance to the rebels might not be what I can, and have, contributed to their cause, but rather in removing me from being used by the Capitol. Any interest in me could easily be more about keeping me quiet than sheltering an ally. I don't know what District 13 holds for me – until a few moments ago, I wasn't certain District 13 actually exists. But If I'm held as a prisoner, or hailed as a hero, it's a better fate than what Snow and the Peacekeepers had in mind. And, for an experienced reporter, it might make a good story.

8

Katniss, Johanna and the other soldiers must have either been pulled onto the ship with ropes, or climbed up themselves because suddenly some were there sitting beside me; others appeared at the font of the ship, talking and giving orders; and for some reason two of them seemed to be editing voicedocs at an audio terminal. But those two weren't any soldiers I had seen before; I recognized them as two techs from the Capitol Games studio who, for no apparent reason, were wearing helmets and body armor over their worksuits. It's not surprising I'm seeing things, the past few hours have been unimaginable to anyone who's life, until now, has consisted of little more than wearing fancy clothes and effecting the personality of 'charming host' in front of an audience. In combination with the wave of exhaustion that's suddenly come over me, my mind doesn't seem to be able to keep up with reality. But now that I'm safe, I can afford to accept the overwhelming feelings of trust, joy, and hope I've carefully concealed through these past weeks. I can relax in the sense of floating, transferred from the hovercraft through my body, and simply take in this experience for what it is. It makes no difference that I see, sitting across from me, Johanna wearing her interview gown from the 71st, eating cake. Or on either side of me aren't the soldiers Porter and Hanson, but Emid and Tarla, my two best childhood friends. Who, for some reason, are still the same children I remember. That, from somewhere I can't identify, I hear my favorite song being played by my favorite group. And that at the front of the ship, just outside the cockpit and bathed in the blinding light of a setting sun, stands the Mockingjay: More defiant, self-assured, and commanding than I had ever noticed. Burning with an intensity that creates its own light, its own flame. Wings unfurled. Smiling.

'Caesar Flickerman, Face of the Games, saved in Daring Rescue'. 'Mockingjay rises as Phoenix in Rescue of Beloved Games Spokesman'. That's a story Lletha would kill for. A broadcast that should guarantee her another year or so insulated behind that oak desk. But certainly not a story to be recorded by me. Because Panam, the world we accepted as unyielding and permanent, has fractured. Panam, the pretense of a strong republic that achieved its success through manipulation and maintained its authority though terror, is now, itself, falling to rebellion. Even as I begin to fade; start to black out; the final face I see is of Katniss Everdeen...our Girl on Fire. Here to rescue me. Just as she saved Peeta. Just as she exposed the tortuous deception known as the Games. Just as she ignited the flame that will liberate Panam. Just as I am, now, free. Because fifteen seconds earlier, Peacekeeper bullets ripped through my body – preceded by an explosion shattering my front door, a sizable portion of an entry alcove, and for good measure the lower half of my torso. And Caesar Flickerman was dead. And no one is here, any longer, to report it.

Epilogue

"Every year, the surviving Tributes gather for the games. Not in competition, but in remembrance. Not to fight to the death, but to cherish life. Because for those of us who have had everything taken away, all we have remaining are each other." - Katniss Everdeen. Citizen.


End file.
